“No matter!” she said, looking at him sadly.  “I have suffered much.”

He replied philosophically—­

“Such is life!”

“Has life,” Emma went on, “been good to you at least, since our separation?”

“Oh, neither good nor bad.”

“Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“You think so?” she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed.  “Oh, Rodolphe! if you but knew!  I loved you so!”

It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time, their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the Show.  With a gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion.  But sinking upon his breast she said to him—­

“How did you think I could live without you?  One cannot lose the habit of happiness.  I was desolate.  I thought I should die.  I will tell you about all that and you will see.  And you—­you fled from me!”

For, all the three years, he had carefully avoided her in consequence of that natural cowardice that characterises the stronger sex.  Emma went on, with dainty little nods, more coaxing than an amorous kitten—­

“You love others, confess it!  Oh, I understand them, dear!  I excuse them.  You probably seduced them as you seduced me.  You are indeed a man; you have everything to make one love you.  But we’ll begin again, won’t we?  We will love one another.  See!  I am laughing; I am happy!  Oh, speak!”

And she was charming to see, with her eyes, in which trembled a tear, like the rain of a storm in a blue corolla.

He had drawn her upon his knees, and with the back of his hand was caressing her smooth hair, where in the twilight was mirrored like a golden arrow one last ray of the sun.  She bent down her brow; at last he kissed her on the eyelids quite gently with the tips of his lips.

“Why, you have been crying!  What for?”

She burst into tears.  Rodolphe thought this was an outburst of her love.  As she did not speak, he took this silence for a last remnant of resistance, and then he cried out—­

“Oh, forgive me!  You are the only one who pleases me.  I was imbecile and cruel.  I love you.  I will love you always.  What is it.  Tell me!” He was kneeling by her.

“Well, I am ruined, Rodolphe!  You must lend me three thousand francs.”

“But—­but—­” said he, getting up slowly, while his face assumed a grave expression.

“You know,” she went on quickly, “that my husband had placed his whole fortune at a notary’s.  He ran away.  So we borrowed; the patients don’t pay us.  Moreover, the settling of the estate is not yet done; we shall have the money later on.  But to-day, for want of three thousand francs, we are to be sold up.  It is to be at once, this very moment, and, counting upon your friendship, I have come to you.”

“Ah!” thought Rodolphe, turning very pale, “that was what she came for.”  At last he said with a calm air—­